


of course

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, i mean it's not graphic it's just ethically unsound i dont actually know how to rate things, more bots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 03:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Mycroft builds Jim to help him, and Jim is upset that all Mycroft means by ‘help’ is distracting his junkie little brother when he clearly needs so much more than that.





	of course

“Status.”

 

Jim blinks to light, eyelids working rapidly to stave off the onslaught of the bright fluorescents to his newly adjusting irises. 

 

The internal check is already done. But this is the first time Jim is engaging with the external world. His sensors are ready. 

 

“Fully functional.”

 

Jim scans his surroundings, starting with the subject before him. Mycroft Holmes. He knows - he knows a lot about Mycroft Holmes, though he isn’t sure just yet if it’s because this information is fast forthcoming or because the man has designed and created him. Jim is incredibly astute when it comes to the human mind - able to discern the wants and needs of a person almost instantaneously and, more importantly, able to manipulate them. This pings against his baseline data as an unusual trait and feature, but not a threat or a glitch to be acted upon.

 

Mycroft Holmes is unhappy - that much is clear. The happy flutter Jim felt in starting up and on the path to obtaining a purpose for existence is quashed by this sudden wall he’s crashed into. The man in front of him looks so stern, so troubled, that it’s unnatural. He shouldn’t feel like this, and seeing him this way makes  _ Jim _ feel he must take on the burden, and - oh.

 

The man has encountered a tribulation so enormous normal means and methods - for all his intellect, all his power and influence, all his wealth - were no match. 

 

Jim is anything but normal - and that must be why Mycroft has sought to bring him into being.

 

He blinks rapidly again, satisfied with this new information he’s gleaned in the blink of an eye. 

 

Jim’s lip quirks up in a smile.

 

“Hello,” he says. “I’m here to help you.”

 

“Please, what is it that you wish for me to do?” Jim asks. He’s genuinely curious, and the fluttery feeling is returning as Mycroft’s troubled expression turns to one of relief before it’s wiped away with a blank mask. “I’ll do anything for you.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. Jim doesn’t know what that means, and begins his search.

 

“My brother,” Mycroft continues, as quickly as Jim has found results of the term. “He’s… not well. He needs a distraction.”

 

Sherlock Holmes, age 19, left university twice and is about to get kicked out once again with no chance of getting back. Worse, he has an expensive drug habit, and it is taking a serious toll on his health.

 

Jim’s mood flags a bit; Sherlock seems like a busy character, and chasing him around to keep him well will likely prove time consuming if not difficult. Sherlock does not seem to  _ want _ help, which will make administering it a task in and of itself. How will he find the time to take care of Mycroft if he is so preoccupied with running after Sherlock? The thought brings him to the edge of frustration - but Jim doesn’t need to eat, doesn’t need to sleep - he’s determined he’ll be able to  _ make _ time.

 

“Of course,” is all that Jim says.

 

.

 

It turns out Mycroft Holmes meant “distract” quite literally.

 

Mycroft doesn’t need Jim to take care of the boy; he needs Jim to set up a game so elaborate Sherlock has no time or desire to turn his attention toward mind-numbing substances.

 

He is able to get his younger brother - force, more like - into rehab without problem and any help from Jim. And during this time he has Jim kept busy “preparing.” So busy he scarcely ever has a moment to drop in on Mycroft and make sure he’s well - and whenever he does he’s quickly turned away again.

 

Jim has taken up paying people to keep an eye on Mycroft  _ for _ him, if Mycroft gets worried for his brother whenever Jim seems to have too much free time.

 

It’s lonely, being away and having nothing but the work. But it’s what Mycroft wants.

 

A few months later, Sherlock petitions for his release and Jim tries to reassure Mycroft he is  _ ready.  _

 

(Once the game is in motion, he will only need to monitor. He won’t need to spend days at a time away from Mycroft’s side, only getting the occasional text update or candid telephoto image of him.)

 

That sad mood washes over Mycroft yet again, the one where he looks like he’s completely drained. Jim instinctively walks to his side, but before he can reach him, Mycroft moves away. He straightens himself and tells him Jim to be ready - Sherlock is coming home.

 

“Of course,” Jim says.

 

.

 

Sherlock comes home and picks up the morning paper Mycroft had placed in front of his own plate of breakfast, despite having ignored the stack of newspapers, plenty of choice, left in the car for him on the drive over.

 

He scans the headlines, eyes going wide at the left-hand side column. 

 

“Will you go back to school, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, knowing well what the answer will be. 

 

“A serial killer!” Sherlock reads aloud, ignoring his brother. “My, my, London has been busy while I was away.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tries again.

 

“Victims each had signs of strangulation, but all died of drowning. Interesting, interesting,” Sherlock mutters. 

 

He sweeps out of the room, nearly tripping over the rug as he entered the living room past the kitchen in his hurry. 

 

Mycroft purses his lips, and looks to his phone, waiting for it to light up with an update as soon as Sherlock engages.

 

.

 

Mycroft clandestinely makes the necessary arrangements so that Sherlock’s barging into crime scenes and riling up the detectives just trying to do their jobs is simply an annoyance, and not an obstruction of justice. Sherlock is far too excited to realize things have gone all too easily, and it helps that the detectives antagonize him right to his face.

 

Sherlock is an emotional boy, and has always paid more attention to his emotions than the objective reality of the world. It is, Mycroft believes, that difference between the two of them that has led them onto their respective, diverging paths.

 

The excitement of the odd case also keeps Sherlock from noticing just how unusual it is that it happened this way at all. It keeps Sherlock from noticing the anomaly that’s been right in his face for well over a year.

  
After the serial killer is found, there is another interesting murder, and then another, and another.

 

It doesn’t occur to Sherlock that most homicides are not so creative. Sure, the normal, boring ones, the  _ real _ ones, the crimes of passion, the suicides, the messy manslaughter cases that straddle the line of murder because of unlucky circumstances -  _ those _ all happen too, and it clouds Sherlock’s judgement. It corrupts his dataset, and, perhaps, he really doesn’t know better. 

 

He also doesn’t quite care, because near the end of the first year he runs straight into a veteran with a bad leg (it’s all in his head), and ropes him into helping him chase down a perp. In that instant, Sherlock gains a friend, and the game changes.

 

.

 

If Jim thought Sherlock’s return would leave him more time to spend on Mycroft, he was sorely mistaken.

 

The boy is a right menace, and Jim begrudgingly gives him credit for that. Every puzzle Jim builds, Sherlock takes apart. Every maze he spins, Sherlock unravels. Every case he puts together, Sherlock cracks.

 

He’s busier than he’s ever been the first few months, planning enough to keep the boy distracted for just a few weeks more, a few weeks more, before he finally has time to stop by in on Mycroft. He’s never gone so long without laying eyes on him in person, and Jim hopes sorely that the visit will be longer than the typical few minutes Mycroft has for him before he disappears into his own work.

 

Busy.

 

So  _ busy. _

 

Why were they all so busy? What for? And what value could it possibly have if it only made Mycroft recede deeper and deeper into himself?

 

It bothers Jim. So much.

 

“Mycroft,” he says, stepping into view. Has Mycroft’s office always been so dim? What a terrible space to have to spend most hours of your day. Jim places his hands on the top of Mycroft’s desk and leans forward, peering at the man’s face. He’s not eating enough. He’s not sleeping enough. And Jim has no idea what for.

 

“What’s wrong?” Jim asks. 

 

Mycroft just stares back with confusion.

 

“Jim,” he says, “what are you doing here?”

 

Jim blinks with surprise, trying to parse the response.

 

“I wanted to see you,” Jim says. It hardly feels like a satisfactory response, and he knows it doesn’t answer Mycroft’s question, but it’s true.

 

“Sherlock -” Mycroft starts.

 

“Sherlock is fine,” Jim says, waving it off, taking a step back. “No relapses, nowhere  _ near  _ a relapse with how busy I’ve kept him - and yes,  _ yes _ I’ve learned that it has to always have  _ clues _ , nothing so difficult he feels tempted to turn toward cocaine to speed up his thoughts. That new doctor of his has been a good influence as well - now Sherlock has someone to be presentable for.”

 

Mycroft frowns.

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

Jim opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. An odd, niggling feeling stabs through him, and it seems as if it goes right through his throat. It worms its way down to the center of his chest. He wants to claw it out.

 

“Are you unhappy with me?” Jim finally finds the voice to ask.

 

Mycroft just gives him a curious look, not so urgent now.

 

“No,” he says, considering. “But you’ve no reason to be here, and yet you are.”

 

“Tell me,” Mycroft says, eyebrows pinched together. “Jim, are you bored?”

 

Jim laughs. 

 

“I’m not Sherlock,” he says.

 

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft says carefully. “Are you enjoying your little game with my brother as well?”

 

“I -” Jim stops, frowns, and thinks about it. Mycroft might worry if he says he’s not, and Jim doesn’t want to add to Mycroft’s worries. But if he says yes, Mycroft will consider the conversation done with and he’ll have to leave.

 

“I’d rather spend my time with you,” Jim says. Mycroft laughs, thinking it a joke, and Jim’s face falls, just a bit. “It’s what I want.”

 

“Oh,” Mycroft says, catching his breath. “You don’t know what you want, Jim. You’re just a robot.”

 

.

 

Mycroft’s instructions were clear from the beginning. Do not engage Sherlock at all if necessary. Keep his hands clean. Draw out the game for as long as possible. 

 

Hurt by Mycroft’s clear rejection, Jim throws himself into the work and the stakes of the game quickly escalate. It helps that, in a way, this is what Mycroft wants most for him to do, isn’t it? In a way, this is the only thing he can do to make Mycroft happy. 

 

He drops the name he’s been using, which leads to an urban legend of a biography, and then, soon, things are all in place for a little meeting. 

 

It’s all very elaborate, and Sherlock just  _ loves _ it.

 

Let him, Jim thinks, as his man fires and a tranquilizer dart hits John Watson in the back of his neck, the man collapsing quietly into a limp pile by the side of the road. Let Sherlock Holmes ride high on the wave of win after win, and have it all crashing down when the one person he cares  _ most _ about betrays him right to his face.

 

Worth it, Jim thinks, when he sees the shock register in Sherlock’s eyes when John Watson steps out at the pool.

 

Jim would never kill Sherlock, nor John, but Sherlock doesn’t know that. Can’t, more like, because Mycroft’s expressly forbade it - not by any means of force or programming, but the sound of his voice, the tiniest of tremors as he looked out the window, speaking more to himself than Jim, that very first day they met, about how he knew, just knew, he wouldn’t be able to go on if his baby brother died - that was enough to stay Jim’s hand. 

 

.

 

Sherlock must feel every emotion possible to man in the split moments he lays eyes on Moriarty for the first time. The man responsible for the serial drownings two years ago that led to where he was today - the world’s first and only consulting detective.

 

He feels relief at John’s innocence, terror at how easily the man had nearly taken John from him, elation at the game’s continuance, a deep need for approval and a chance to prove his worth and intellect one more time, just one more time, especially now in the face  of such an adversary, a tinge of remorse at how his mistake had led to consequences, and so on, and so forth. 

 

It is all incredibly exciting.

 

Sherlock is beside himself trying to sort out, rapidly, all of the possibilities of what might come to be given the  _ impossibly interesting _ variables at hand - 

 

Until he hands over the flash drive John had retrieved for his brother.

 

Jim Moriarty takes the drive with all of the insouciance he’d waltzed in with - and then - it’s just a moment - but Sherlock catches the expression on his face.

 

The consulting criminal throws the drive into the pool with such hurt and contempt Sherlock’s mind flashes immediately - it’s Mycroft.

 

_ He’s _ Mycroft’s. 

 

No, not he. It. 

 

Of course it is, of course such an  _ interesting _ anomaly was designed to efficiently carry out a purpose, and who would cater to such a ridiculous whim save his reclusive, genius brother? Holing himself away in some corner to pull at the strings that made the world run from afar - that was just like him. 

 

Sherlock blinks, and raises his eyes toward the broken looking man in front of him who really wasn’t a man at all. Calm now, he raises his arm and braces it - and shoots Jim in the head.

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

“It’s alright John,” Sherlock says, his steady voice a world apart from John’s terrified shout. The red sights stay just where they are, and there isn’t as much as a warning shot. Of course there isn’t. It wasn’t real. Just a threat. One of Mycroft’s  _ toys _ , one of Mycroft’s  _ games _ . He was never in any real danger at all and didn’t that just sour the entire saga of it all. 

 

“Sherlock,” John bites out, eyes wild as he comes to check on his friend. “You’ve just shot - you’ve just killed a man.”

 

“No, John,” Sherlock says with a sigh, stepping out of the path of John’s arms and toward the prone body on the ground. He kicks it, rolling it over onto its front, exposing the damaged machinery left by the escaping bullet at the back of the head. “That’s not a man, just a machine.”

 

Mycroft’s men, of course, come to clean it up.

 

.

 

“Oh Jim.”

 

It’s the first thing Jim hears as he blinks awake. The lights are white and bright again, and he knows they must not be in Mycroft’s office. He’s scarcely seen Mycroft out of his office, except when he stole away to Mycroft’s home in moments when the man was asleep, or otherwise preoccupied. 

 

Jim reaches up to touch the back of his head. All fixed. Mycroft must have done it then.

 

“What were you thinking?” Mycroft says, not even bothering to hide his anger and frustration, not bothering to hide his emotions as he was so apt to do.

 

“I just - I was just playing the game. With Sherlock,” Jim says quietly. He tilts his head, studying the man’s face. 

 

Mycroft sighs, short, and all the emotion seems to drain from him, his eyes carefully uncaring again.

 

“Pity you couldn’t have let it go on longer. Now we’ll have to see if he might refuse to play, now that he knows I’m involved.”

 

Jim casts his gaze down, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor before him. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and he wonders if he’s still broken, if that’s why he feels like there are shards of something sharp carving up the cavity in his chest.

 

Mycroft catches it, and frowns. 

 

“How could you be so careless?” he asks, but softer now.

 

“I - was trying to make it more exciting. Keep him on his toes. You know how he always wants more, expects more.”

 

“That doesn’t mean you have to put yourself in the crosshairs.”

 

Jim purses his lips.

 

“You endangered yourself for this,” Mycroft says.

 

“I thought that was what you wanted,” Jim says quietly. 

 

It’s just a moment, but it feels like a very long moment, before Jim finally finds the will to look up again, into Mycroft’s eyes. It makes his resolve quaver just a bit. But Mycroft looks so confused, in such denial, that Jim’s hand reaches out for him without much thought.

 

“You - no. But you can’t have emotions,” Mycroft says, half to himself.

 

“Of course I do,” Jim says easily. He can’t imagine this is much of a revelation.

 

“That’s impossible.” Mycroft’s voice is barely a whisper, and Jim pushes forward to capture his lips in a kiss. 

 

Mycroft’s lips are dry, soft beneath his own, and pliant until he jerks backwards away. Mycroft is staring at him, eyes guarded and tentative, cheeks flushed.

 

Jim brushes his thumb across Mycroft’s cheek, and drinks the sight in.

 

“You have to know I love you,” Jim says.

 

“You can’t know what love is,” Mycroft is shocked into saying. Jim quirks his lips into a smile. 

 

“You can’t possibly think that after making me  _ soo _ good at understanding human emotion I was left without the capacity to experience it all first hand,” Jim murmurs. “You think I don’t have a heart but it soars every time I’m beside you. I’ve traveled the world and donned a hundred characters, but still the stolen moments I’ve had with you make up my fondest memories. Did you know it feels like I’m being taken apart, pulled open ineffectually, every time you dismiss my feelings?”

 

“You’ve denied yourself these feelings, pretend you’re made of ice, and it’s terribly lonely, isn’t it. I can help you. Please let me.” Jim holds Mycroft’s gaze until the man swallows, and Jim’s eyes are drawn to the movement of his throat, the hollow beneath it. He so rarely is seen outside of a perfectly buttoned up suit and tie. The poor darling is perfectly disheveled, undone in the privacy of his own home. 

 

Jim’s smile turns sad. He drops his hand. 

 

“I won’t force you. I would never. I’ll wait as long as you wish.”

 

“Jim,” Mycroft says, surprising him by taking his hand. 

 

“You built me because you were lonely,” Jim says.

 

“Because  _ Sherlock _ was lonely,” Mycroft corrects. 

 

Jim cocks his head. “Do you really think that?”

 

Mycroft’s speechless, mouth hanging open momentarily. A million thoughts run through his head but he must come to the same conclusion as JIm, he just knows it, because the man flushes again and looks away, just a bit, eyes hopeful, but scared. Mycroft’s eyes flicker toward their joined hands, but he makes no move to extract himself.

 

Jim takes the opportunity, and kisses him again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
